Incapacitation
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: The doctor had just asked how bad the pain was when the pain spiked. Sherlock's initial response was a gasp that evolved into a whimper. "Ten," he gasped. "Ten..."
1. Stomaching the Pain

**Incapacitation**

It started with the pain.

Sherlock was someone who had a high pain tolerance. Given his occupation, he did not find himself regularly _feeling_ pain. He could run out in front of a car and find that he had bruises later, although he didn't remember feeling pain due to the thrill of the chase. He could burn the top layer of skin off of his fingers, via chemical experiments, and not notice that his hands had been doused until later, when the burns stung under water. He could sit for hours on end, not noticing as his back protested the treatment and his neck developed a crick.

Sherlock was working on an experiment when he noticed the stomach pain.

It was bad enough to make him notice, so it immediately caught his interest. When was the last time he'd had something to eat? But it wasn't a hunger pain. Drink? He had just had tea in the past hour. Bathroom? Not his bladder and it wasn't stomach cramps.

Sherlock deemed it unimportant and went back to his experiment, although he did briefly splay his fingers across his stomach. The warmth and the pressure seemed to help, although he didn't wait to see if it would go away. He needed to make notes on this experiment, not deal with a stomach-ache.

"Sherlock? Did you eat dinner?" John asked, several hours later, as he stepped into the flat. "What is that awful- ugh. Please don't tell me you had that in our refrigerator."

Sherlock glanced up from the intestines that he was inspecting. "What? Of course I didn't eat. Of course I had this in our refrigerator; where else would I put it?"

John sighed. "I told you not to tell me." He opened the refrigerator. "Anything in?"

"There's leftover take-away," Sherlock replied uninterestedly, turning back to the intestines strung out in front of him.

"Is it safe?"

"Tupperware safe," Sherlock replied sarcastically, only wincing afterwards.

The stomach pain hadn't gone away, only seemed to get more defined as the hours had stretched on. He tried to ignore it, but it was getting progressively worse. It seemed to have localized, however, so Sherlock was glad. Applying pressure, though, did _not_ help anymore, and only made it hurt worse.

"That's good enough for me," John said, closing the fridge. He had, apparently, missed the wince.

Sherlock was glad. The last thing he needed was John trying to force medical advice upon him. Sherlock was fine without the medical advice.

By the time that he fell into bed- literally- Sherlock wasn't so sure.

The pain, while definitely localized, was definitely growing stronger. He was starting to feel nauseous. He knew that, if this didn't heal itself soon, he was going to end up vomiting. He felt like that would be more detrimental than beneficial and he wanted to avoid it at all costs.

So, he had swallowed down some paracetamol after brushing his teeth and collapsed into bed, feeling not entirely exhausted but very much in pain. He drew his legs to his stomach and snuggled into the blankets, hoping that the problem would fix itself by the time that he woke up.

* * *

It didn't.

Sherlock woke up around seven in the morning, gasping from a bout of pain that had forced its way into his unconsciousness.

Nausea swelled deep in his stomach and slowly travelled up, leaving him to break out in a cold sweat. Vomiting was imminent. He kicked the blankets away- a terrible mistake- and gasped as an invisible knife twisted in his stomach.

Deciding that, while kicking the blankets away had been terrible, having to clean vomit up off of his floor would be infinitely worse, and he carefully shuffled into the bathroom, closing the door quietly.

John wouldn't be awake yet. Good.

Sherlock kneeled in front of the toilet, gripping his hands into fists as he vomited. He was right about one thing, at least: vomiting hurt.

He was shaking when his stomach settled, if that was perhaps the word that he should use. He pushed himself to his feet, poured himself a glass of water, and sighed shakily. He felt miserable, which was something he rarely ever thought. He was constantly miserable without a case, but he didn't think he could even handle a case right now. He was that miserable.

He opened the bathroom door painfully and shuffled to the kitchen, drawing his dressing gown close. He walked to the fridge and found a bottle of ice cold water, taking it back to his bedroom with him.

He fell asleep without taking any more paracetamol.

* * *

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock swallowed back nausea, forcing his eyes to open. He hadn't been out of bed since seven this morning and he still didn't want to get out of bed, now at eleven.

"Yes?" he answered.

His bedroom door creaked open and John's face peered in at him, frowning. "You okay?"

Sherlock swallowed again. "Why wouldn't I be?"

John pushed open the door the rest of the way. "Well, for one, you rarely sleep late. Secondly, we haven't had a case, so you shouldn't be exhausted..." he trailed off, frowning. "You look peaky. Are you alright?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, willing it- John, the stomach pain, and the nausea- all away. "I am fine," he said.

There were a few footfalls before a hand landed on Sherlock's forehead. He flinched in spite of himself, but didn't groan at the pain that ensued.

"You're not warm... Sherlock, if something's wrong, you need to tell me."

Sherlock made an effort, then. He untangled his fists from the blankets and reached up to brush John's hand off of his forehead. "I am fine," he repeated.

John did not look convinced. "Alright... Did you want breakfast? Or something to drink, at least? If you're coming down with something, it can't hurt."

"No," Sherlock muttered. "Leave me alone."

* * *

By two p.m., Sherlock could barely swallow back the sick taste of bile in the back of his throat before it returned. Trying to swallow back the building vomit made him want to vomit all the more, but John was in the sitting room and one vomiting escapade would cause him to panic.

Unfortunately for Sherlock, he could hold out no longer.

Making a split decision, Sherlock went for the bucket of flash torches that was sitting in his room. The flash torches had been for an experiment. The bucket was now going to be for vomiting.

He upended the bucket, the torches clanking noisily to the floor, and just before he was sick again.

It didn't take long for John's footsteps to be heard.

"What's going on?"

Sherlock didn't look up, just sank into a sitting position on the edge of his bed and clutched the bucket close to his chest. He kept his eyes closed and focussed on his breathing, rather the nausea that was already re-building.

"I _knew_ you didn't feel well," John said, crossing the room. "Tell me what's wrong. You don't have a fever. Did you do something? Sherlock?"

Sherlock groaned, pressing his hand to his forehead. He wished John would shut up.

"Just... nauseous," he ground out, determined not to make this into a big deal. "Probably from... an experiment. Go away."

"An experiment? Were you experimenting with something poisonous? Sherlock, did you ingest something? You need to tell me if you think there's any chance."

Sherlock shook his head slightly, before he vomited again.

John jumped and swore all in one motion, his anxiety level seeming to spike. Sherlock didn't even have his eyes open and he noted the change.

"Sherlock-"

"Just need to vomit," Sherlock interjected. "I'll be okay. Leave me alone."

He hoped that vomiting would help eventually, because it sure as hell hurt right now.

"Sherlock-"

"_Now_, thank you," Sherlock snapped.

John was silent for a moment before sighing. "I don't know whether or not I should call Poison Control or just leave you to vomit."

"I did not... ingest anything. I promise," Sherlock said impatiently. "Now leave me alone."

"I'm taking your word on this, Sherlock. I can't imagine you would let yourself die of poison over deciding to tell me, so, I hope you're telling me the truth."

Sherlock couldn't answer- he was subjected to another bout of vomiting- but he waved his hand dismissively as John looked at him.

John sighed but walked away. As Sherlock vomited for the fifth time that morning, John paused, but, maybe to protect Sherlock's declining pride and privacy, he didn't turn around.

* * *

John _did_ check up on him every so often, though, which nearly drove Sherlock straight up the wall. Eventually, when he worked up enough strength and urge to need the loo, he shuffled to the bathroom gratefully. At least under the confines of the toilet, John couldn't hover.

All sense of gratitude vanished soon after he used the toilet.

There was blood in his urine.

Sherlock leaned back against the countertop, closing his eyes. For all of his stubborn attitude, he also knew how to read the facts when they were placed in front of him. And blood in the urine was _never_ a good sign.

Think.

He was working through a list of illnesses that he knew of when his stomach gave a particularly nasty jolt. His legs collapsed from under him- the pain so bad it had sent the feeling straight out of his legs- which left him gasping in pain and nearly choking on his vomit. He couldn't quite bring himself to move, to lean forward so he was in vomiting distance of the toilet bowl, so he added vomiting on the floor to the list of the things that were going wrong today.

"John... John!" he gasped, vomiting immediately after he had drawn in a breath.

There was no knock on the bathroom door, but John burst in not seconds later. He took one glance at the situation in front of him and rushed to Sherlock.

"Hey, lean forward, come on," John mumbled, placing his hand against Sherlock's sweat-drenched back. "Come on, the toilet's right here," he said, sounding a bit agitated, as he tried to coax Sherlock forward the foot and a half to the toilet.

"Ow!" Sherlock gasped, reflexively drawing both of his arms around his stomach.

John immediately dropped his hands. "What's wrong with you?"

Sherlock doubled over, the best he could in his kneeling position, anyway, drawing in shallow breaths and struggling not to vomit.

"Sherlock? Sher- Sherlock! Your stomach? Sherlock, talk to me!"

Sherlock nodded weakly, not moving. He screwed his eyes closed and tried not to vomit again. He felt like he was going to pass out. There were black dots dancing across his vision, he was covered in sweat, and goosebumps had risen on his bare arms. While he was sure that he hadn't had a fever before, he knew that he did now.

"Sherlock?" John asked, sounding _very_ worried. "Sherlock, can you sit up?"

Sherlock vomited again in response, barely managing to not be sick on his trousers.

"I'm calling the hospital. Stay here," John said, starting to stand.

"No!" Sherlock gasped, gripping John's arm. "No... Call... Call Lestrade or my brother. No ambulances..."

He didn't know what was wrong with him.

It started with the pain.

It coupled with the nausea.

It reached a peak with a fever.

What, _what_? Think!

He couldn't conceal the slight whimper as pain took his stomach again.

"I need to call an ambulance! You _have_ to go to the hospital, Sherlock!"

"I will!" he gasped, his voice pitched high with pain. "But no ambulances!"

"Fine, then! Whatever gets you to hospital; I don't care!"

Sherlock became aware of John dialling his mobile, of John talking. From the snippets of conversation Sherlock could make out, it appeared that John had called his brother. Sherlock didn't know why he had suggested that, or why he had agreed to go to hospital. Actually, he did know why. He couldn't handle the pain-

He vomited up bile.

"_Now_, Mycroft!" John snapped, before he crouched next to Sherlock again. "Breathe. Just breathe. A car will be here in a few minutes. Breathe, alright?"

Sherlock wanted to say that breathing was boring, but he couldn't find the words. Nor did he have the ambition to say the words, because he could barely draw in a breath at all and it was frightening. His heart was racing out of control, he was shaking uncontrollably, and sweat was rolling down his temples.

From his previous state of not having time to deal with a stomach-ache, Sherlock realized that he had fallen very far to be here, doubled over on the bathroom floor, surrounded by vomit and drenched in sweat, gasping for his breath and struggling to not let his eyes tear up. John's hand was comforting on his shoulder, but the doctor's hand was shaking, and Sherlock was marginally sure that it wasn't because of the intermittent tremor.

"Just hang on, Sherlock... You're going to be alright. I promise. Just a few minutes... Alright?"

Sherlock couldn't respond in favour of struggling to catch his breath.

* * *

**After working through four chapters of wondering if I was going to be dedicated enough to keep working on this story, I decided that I am... **

**I didn't intend for his ailment not to be diagnosed in this chapter, but after two thousand words of not getting to that point, the diagnosis (first Sherlock figuring it out and then the doctors diagnosing him) will be in the next chapter. Along with a lot more doctor jargon and Sherlock being in serious pain. I assure you that this is not the normal flu that Sherlock is being attacked by.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_.**

**Follows and favourites and reviews are always, as Arthur Knapp-Shappey so cunningly puts it, _brilliant_.**

**Thanks!**


	2. Collapsing into Hospital

"Come on. Come on!"

"I can't-" Sherlock gasped. "'m gonna vomit..."

John didn't say a word, but turned and strode out of the bathroom.

John's mobile had buzzed a few seconds ago, presumably with a text from Mycroft because John had told Sherlock that the car was here. Sherlock, while equal parts relieved and equal parts hating himself for letting John call his brother, had only struggled to stand before he was sick again.

The pain in his stomach was debilitating.

"Here! We have to get to the hospital," John said, shoving a basin into Sherlock's hands.

"Oh, John, I don't want to vomit into..." Sherlock trailed off. "This is the basin that I had the liver experiment in..."

"Yep. That's in the trash. Come on, I'll help you stand."

"My experiment..."

It was a painful process, but Sherlock managed to coax himself to his feet, swallowing back bile and trembling violently. It was an even more painful to get downstairs, and Sherlock took advantage of the basin more than once, even though there was nothing left in his stomach to vomit up.

When they got to the car, Sherlock collapsed onto the seat, shaking even though his Belstaff coat drenched with sweat. John joined him and slammed the door, not even prompting the chauffeur to drive before the car took off. Apparently Mycroft had decided that the panic in John's voice, and the demand, was enough to mean that there was a serious tragedy happening.

Sherlock swallowed, trying not to vomit again. His stomach hurt _so_ badly already and the repeated vomiting was leaving him feeling weak and helpless.

"Don't hold it in," John said.

Sherlock swallowed again, looking towards John. The doctor's eyes were trained on him and Sherlock wished he wouldn't look at him. He hated being analyzed. Sherlock analyzed; he didn't _get_ analyzed. "There's nothing to 'hold in'..." Sherlock murmured. "I've vomited it all up..."

"Yes, well, I can see you're trying not to vomit."

The car hit a bump in the road and the noise that elicited from Sherlock's mouth was neither dignified nor beneficial. It was a bit of a whimper, Sherlock realized, and John looked like he was... Well, John looked like he was about to either yell or full-scale panic. Sherlock wasn't sure which one.

"You need to tell me what exactly's wrong with you," John said, his voice controlled. "Your stomach hurts. Nausea and vomiting, and now you have a fever. _Where_ does your stomach hurt? One to ten pain range."

Sherlock unclamped his teeth and opened his eyes, neither of which actions had he made a conscious decision to do. Must have been a reaction to the pain. "Ten."

"If you're just being dramatic-"

Sherlock sighed shakily. "Maybe a nine. Definitely a nine. Oh-" He curled his hands into fists again, drawing his knees directly to his chest.

"Breathe..." John reminded, looking to the window. "We're almost there. Keep talking. Where does it hurt?"

Sherlock swallowed again. He did _not_ want to vomit in Mycroft's car, basin or not. He had standards... albeit if they were very quickly diminishing. "Stomach... Right quadrant..."

Suddenly, it clicked.

The slight pain at first. The pain localizing and intensifying. The nausea; the vomiting. The fever afterwards.

"Appendicitis," Sherlock mumbled.

"What?" John asked, his eyebrows knitting further as he frowned. "Did you just say-"

"Appendicitis. Has to be..." he trailed off, shivering. His stomach contracted. He groaned, clamping his teeth together again.

"How long has this been going on? Sherlock? When did you notice your stomach hurting?"

"Yest... Yesterday..." Sherlock muttered. "Localized pain started... around dinner... Nausea started when I went to bed... Vomiting at seven... Fever around... well, recently..." he trailed off, biting his lip as he steadied himself before the car could turn into the hospital parking lot. "Oh. There was blood in my urine... It all fits..."

"_Why_ didn't you tell me?" John asked. "Especially about the blood-"

"Because I just found out before I started vomiting again," Sherlock said on one breath, carefully uncurling his legs.

"Okay. Okay. We're okay, you'll be fine." John sounded like he was trying to reassure himself. "Okay. Can you walk?"

"Um... Maybe," Sherlock mumbled.

"I can get you a wheelchair," John said, getting out of the car.

Sherlock shook his head, gripping the door tightly as he stood. He did not want to be subjected to such a state as a wheelchair.

However.

The pain was excruciating. Tears sprung to his eyes and spilled over, quickly travelling down his cheeks. _Really?_ He was in UCH's parking lot, _crying_, in the middle of the day when _people_ were around?

His legs shook. He could _not_ stay conscious through passing out again. Or, at least, he couldn't stay conscious without actually breaking down in tears, consciously giving into the childish notion to cry.

Luckily, he didn't have to. John seemed to have noticed when Sherlock had, and he had just managed to get there before Sherlock collapsed, hooking his arms under Sherlock's armpits. It stopped him from collapsing entirely and he instead fell back on John, who staggered under the weight and propped himself up against the car.

"Okay, take it easy..."

Sherlock focussed on breathing, and when it became too much, instead focussed on heaving bile into the basin that John shoved to him again.

Eventually (it seemed like hours, but had to be seconds), there was a nurse with a wheelchair and Sherlock, while wishing he _had_ passed out, sank into the infernal hospital equipment. This was humiliating. This was just downright-

He went into another round of dry-heaving.

Somewhere around him, Sherlock was aware of a flurry of movement. Nurses and doctors and medical equipment, John's voice talking incessantly. He kept hearing words like 'appendix' and 'rupture' and 'hydrated', although he was desperately trying to tune everything out.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!"

Sherlock wearily opened his eyes. John was crouched in front of him, looking worried.

"We need to get you into a hospital gown and in bed. It'll be more comfortable and we can work on treating your pain," he said. "I know it hurts, but stand up, alright? I'll help you."

The doctors were saying something about how they could manage, but John shook his head.

"No. He won't let you. Let me do it. I'm a doctor. Sherlock, come on. Take my hand."

Feeling useless, Sherlock did so, if only because he was _not_ going to let someone else change his clothes. He was not that... okay, well, maybe he was, but he _was_ going to undress himself.

He struggled to his feet. He felt weak and sick and like he was going to vomit again, and he immediately made to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Hang on a second," John muttered.

Sherlock clutched at the bedframe for support, trying not to groan.

He blinked in surprise when John started undressing him. The shirt was fine; the trousers, however, and Sherlock felt what was maybe close to a laugh starting to build in his chest. Wouldn't people _talk_?

John didn't seem to notice, just picked up the hospital gown and helped Sherlock into it. Sherlock made a mental note to say something about the people-talking lark, later, when he felt better.

"Sit."

Sherlock sat. And then he stretched out along the expanse of the bed, burying his face against the pillow, before drawing his knees up to his chest again.

There was the rustle of the curtain as John vanished outside of the bed cubicle. Oh. That's why John hadn't been concerned about people talking. He had drawn the curtain around the bed. Made sense... He thought.

John returned a moment later, along with a doctor and a few nurses.

An IV was quickly inserted and taped into place. Sherlock vaguely wondered if they were giving him medication- probably not, they had tests to run. Hydration, then. They were just giving him something to keep him hydrated. How... dull.

The nurses worked purposefully, but Sherlock didn't want to keep his eyes open to watch everyone. The doctor was asking him questions, John prompting him to answer, and Sherlock wished that they would give him a sedative.

The doctor had just asked how bad the pain was when the aforementioned pain spiked. Sherlock's initial response was a gasp that evolved into a whimper. He drew his legs impossibly closer and clenched his fists so tightly that he felt blood spring up underneath his fingernails. "Ten," he gasped, pressing his head back against the pillow and squeezing his eyes closed. "Ten..."

Sherlock heard John swear, sounding like from a distance.

"You need to run these tests, now," John said crisply. "He needs medication. He can't have morphine but whatever else you can give him. Please."

Darkness swam before Sherlock's eyes, which was strange as he already had his eyes closed, as his stomach twisted. He felt like he was dying.

"John," he gasped, his voice pitching off into another whimper. He had to stop that. That was making him sound pathetic.

"I'm right here, Sherlock," John said. Sherlock became aware of someone placing their hand against his forehead. "You're burning up," John muttered.

Fingers swept Sherlock's bangs out of his eyes and rested lightly against his scalp, keeping his hair out of the sweat that was dripping off of him.

"We'll need to get him in for a CT scan as soon as possible," a woman's voice said.

"Mr. Holmes, you said this pain started yesterday?"

"Yes," Sherlock spat.

"And localized in the lower right quadrant of your stomach?"

"Yes."

"Have you been vomiting?"

Sherlock groaned. He wanted them to stop talking.

"Profusely," John supplied. There was a pause, followed by "I'm his flatmate".

"His fever's at thirty-nine, doctor," said the woman's voice.

There was suddenly pressure against his stomach and Sherlock flinched horribly, finally managing to open his eyes.

"Don't touch me!" he growled, trying to scoot backwards.

"Sherlock, no," John muttered, removing his hand from Sherlock's forehead and gripping his wrists. "Sherlock, they have to run these tests. Just hang on for a few minutes, okay?"

Sherlock tried every trick in the book to internalize his pain. Despite his best efforts, he could only muffle his groan against his hand, which was clapped permanently over his mouth, as the doctor tested for rebound pain and tenderness.

"He said something about blood in his urine, too," John supplied suddenly.

"We'll be taking a urine analysis... but it's possible, if this is appendicitis."

"And?" John asked. "That's what it is, isn't it?"

"Usually, we test for leukocytosis to be sure, but given the rest of the indicators, it seems as though it is. We'll get him up to radiology and, if diagnosed, be able to get prepared for the surgery... A nurse will be by momentarily for blood work so we can put a painkiller into the IV drip," the doctor said, before the curtain rustled again.

"Sherlock?" John asked, breaking the quiet.

Sherlock painstakingly forced his eyes open again. He looked at John questioningly.

"You'll be alright."

Sherlock's stomach seized up again and he buried his face into his pillow, trying to breathe. His fingers curled into fists again, briefly, before he felt John's fingers pry them open. He was about to complain- mentally- when John's fingers suddenly intertwined with his. He couldn't complain and he didn't _consciously_ squeeze John's hand, but he found it was a nice way to attempt to channel the pain.

John's free hand pushed back his hair again- which Sherlock had to admit was really annoying, sticking to the sweat on his forehead- as he muttered some heinously condescending and sentimental words under his breath.

* * *

**First of all, I am not a doctor nor do I have any training in medicine. I simply do research- as much as I can, anyway- so please refrain from thinking that I am a professional.**

**Secondly, I don't know if they'd give Sherlock pain medication before running blood tests, so I opted not.**

**Thirdly... To all those who guessed appendicitis, YOU WERE RIGHT! To Arth, who reviewed on the first chapter, yes, this story _was_ inspired by reviews on a story about kidney stones... so thanks to _Storylover18_ for writing that kidney stone story I just referenced and all of her reviewers that inspired this idea! :D**

**As usual, I do not own _Sherlock_. Obviously, if I did, there would be a lot more h/c in the series. And I wouldn't be writing fanfiction. I'd be writing scripts. But, you know. =p I don't own it.**

**Thanks!**


	3. Learning to Cooperate

Sherlock breathed in, held the breath for a moment, and let it out shakily. He repeated the motion, keeping his eyes squeezed shut as John wiped sweat from his face with a cool cloth. It was awkward, but at least there was some semblance of privacy with the curtain around the bed. At least no one could see who was stuck in hospital, confined to a hospital bed and trying not to cry out with the pain being felt.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm here to draw some blood."

Sherlock painfully extended his arm, not opening his eyes. He felt the cloth leave his forehead and footsteps as John walked to the other side of the bed. The cloth returned shortly.

"D'you _have_ to do that?" Sherlock muttered, seeming to startle the nurse, who was sterilizing his arm with an alcohol wipe, but John was the one who answered the (intended) question.

"Yes, I do. You have a fever. And you're covered in sweat, which I know isn't comfortable."

"But I'm cold..." Sherlock muttered.

The nurse tied the rubber band around Sherlock's arm to no doubt draw his veins forth. There was the slight twinge as the needle was inserted. Sherlock forced his eyes open, tilting his head slightly to watch his blood leave his body.

"Sherlock..." John admonished, sounding annoyed.

Sherlock looked at John slowly, breathing in another deep breath to dispel the pain. "What...?"

"Most people tend _not_ to look," he said, nodding to the bloodwork.

"'m not most people..." he mumbled, looking back to the work on his arm.

It was around the second vial of blood- which wasn't entirely much at _all_, he realized- that he started to feel lightheaded. He swallowed back nausea, closing his eyes again.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock exhaled shakily.

"Sherlock?" John asked again. "What's wrong?"

"Faint..." he mumbled.

"Alright..." John's voice was unsure. Sherlock could imagine that he was looking at the nurse now.

"I'm almost finished," the woman's voice said.

Sherlock swallowed again, willing himself not to vomit again. True to her words, the nurse had finished with the blood work after a few seconds. It didn't help Sherlock's nausea and lightheadedness, and tripled with the pain, he felt _worse_.

"How are you feeling?"

Sherlock shivered. He wanted to say that he felt miserable, but the nausea chose the moment to crescendo again. He clamped his hand over his mouth and struggled to sit up, the pain swelling with the movement and doubling his nausea.

John's hand found a place against his back, helping him sit up, as he handed the basin to him. It was pointless, this nausea lark, because all he kept coughing up was bile. It was _gross_.

And vomiting and dry-heaving made his stomach hurt again. The pain was _almost_ tolerable when he wasn't moving, but so much as sitting up and he felt like he was near self-combustion. He wanted to scream.

Or cry.

Maybe both.

John must have noticed.

"Okay, you're okay... Sit back..."

Sherlock collapsed back against the pillows, squeezing his eyes closed. He tried to return to his previous state of controlled breathing, but he couldn't fall back into the relaxed state. He bit his lip and squirmed slightly, trying to get comfortable. It didn't help. He pressed his lips together to muffle the resulting groan.

"Breathe, Sherlock," John murmured, once again returning to the cool cloth.

"I'm _trying_," he retorted, drawing in a deep breath. "It _hurts_."

"I know... I'm sorry. They're working as quickly as possible, I'm sure..."

Sherlock shivered, edging himself onto his (left) side so he could draw his legs close to his chest again.

"You should stay still, Sherlock; moving isn't going to help."

"I _know_," he groaned, clenching his teeth together again. "I can't _help_ it," he choked out, swallowing again. "I wouldn't be here if... I could help it!"

John sighed. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm going to see what's going on."

Sherlock sighed as well, not responding. He knew that they had only been here for five or ten minutes, that the doctor were working as quickly as possible. Since John had called Mycroft, Sherlock was sure that Mycroft had called hospital, and when Mycroft called hospital, things got worked on quickly. It just _hurt_.

"Need a urine analysis," John said as he walked back into the room.

"I don't want to..." Sherlock muttered.

"Sherlock."

"Don't have to go," he said, drawing his pillow closer.

John sounded exasperated as he asked "Can we please not have this conversation?".

"I am serious... Went to the toilet before we left..."

Sherlock was tired. He wondered if he'd be able to fall asleep, with this level of pain. He didn't think it was possible, but he was _so_ exhausted from fighting against the pain and the vomiting and the hustle bustle at the hospital...

"Which I know isn't _entirely_ true, because I was with you for ten minutes before we left and you were quite busy vomiting. Sherlock, please? We can't give you anything until you _work_ with us."

Sherlock sighed heavily, not moving.

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Sherlock, and one is infinitely more uncomfortable than the other."

"John. I do not," Sherlock said, enunciating the words, "have to piss."

"Think about water or something, I don't care."

"Thinking about water isn't going to help. _Drinking_ water generally is the cause for needing the toilet," Sherlock reeled off without opening his eyes.

"I can't _give_ you water. Please?"

Sherlock groaned as he opened his eyes. "You are ridiculously annoying."

"Either you get up- which I will help you to the bathroom, or get a wheelchair, or something, if you're worried about walking- and go piss in this cup, Sherlock, or you're going to have worse problems on your hands. Pissing in a cup is going to be the _last_ thing on your mind if your appendix ruptures. You will die."

"Can't worry about going to the loo if I'm dead..." Sherlock muttered.

"Are you hearing yourself?"

"_Fine_," Sherlock griped, struggling to sit up.

He wasn't sure, but, after he fell back into bed after the pissing-in-a-cup lark, he thought that John might be right. While the latter had been humiliating, his tolerance had crumbled and the tears of pain that he had been fighting spilled down his cheeks as soon as he fell back into bed.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, what are you doing? Just take the tissues!" John said as Sherlock grabbed the pillow and buried his face into it. "Come on. I've seen you walk around the flat naked, against all my wishes," he muttered under his breath, "but it doesn't get much more personal than that. It's just a natural reflex."

Sherlock just focussed on drawing in a shaking breath. He could beg to differ on that statement. Being naked wasn't personal. Everyone had a body. Crying, however, was much more intimate. John didn't understand. That was how Sherlock's mind worked, but John would never understand. Sherlock didn't want to explain.

Instead, he just gasped for breath and tried to inconspicuously wipe his tears away.

"When... do I get... medication?" Sherlock gasped. "I can't... _breathe_... The pain... John."

"The nurse should be back any second."

There was some rustling before John wrenched the pillow away from Sherlock. Sherlock blanched and rubbed his tears away, closing his eyes. He opened them again when oxygen prongs were fixated into his nostrils. The rush of oxygen was uplifting. He closed his eyes again.

"Better?" John asked.

"Mmm..." Sherlock mumbled, without opening his mouth.

"I'm going to talk to your doctor." Something was pressed into Sherlock's hand and he recognized it as the remote to the bed. "Call the nurse if you need _anything_. I'll be right back."

Sherlock nodded slightly. After John had vanished, Sherlock took a tissue from the table and scrubbed away the remnants of the tears, curling his hands into fists. He was fine. He was going to be fine. John was going to get him pain medication. He was going to be put under anaesthesia. He would have surgery. He would feel fine afterwards.

He was going to be fine.

He groaned under his breath, trying to taking shallow breaths to avoid the pain in his stomach. The pain was good, he supposed. The pain meant that his appendix hadn't ruptured yet. A ruptured appendix didn't necessarily mean death; it meant infection throughout the body. Infection through the body was _not_ a good thing, though, and it could very easily lead into death.

Sherlock wanted this surgery to be over with.

John returned, a nurse trailing him.

"They're giving you painkillers, Sherlock," John said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Sherlock nodded slightly, keeping his eyes closed.

"Call us if you need anything, Mr. Holmes," the nurse said. "We'll be taking you for a CT scan shortly."

Sherlock didn't respond and the curtain rustled again.

"You'll start feeling better shortly," John murmured, once again returning to wiping away the sweat from Sherlock's face. "The pain medication will help soon and I imagine the pictures from radiology won't take long since Mycroft called the hospital..." John's fingers combed his hair back. "Try to sleep. I'll be right here if you need anything."

Sherlock couldn't bring himself to answer. The relief of being administered pain medication and John's comforting presence made him want to curl up and fall back asleep.

* * *

**Somewhat shorter chapter. I'm sorry. I still like it. Uncooperative Sherlock (who's in pain) is cute. The uncooperative part, I mean. :p**

**As usual, I am not a doctor, so kindly dismiss any medical errors, if any. And, as usual, I do not own _Sherlock_.**

**Thanks!**


	4. Preparing for Surgery

As tired as he was, he was awake every fifteen or so minutes, half awake when John said they were taking him for his scan and then waking up halfway through it. Then he was back in his room and John was sitting next to him, asking him something, but Sherlock just muttered nonsense in reply before dozing again.

"You were right," John was saying at this point. "You were right about the appendicitis. They're prepping for surgery now."

Sherlock pried his eyes open, at complete relief to find that his pain was tolerable at this point.

"You haven't had anything to eat or drink, right? You didn't have breakfast or anything to drink before I found you earlier?"

Sherlock shook his head slightly. "No..." His voice cracked and he tried to clear his throat. "No, I had... paracetamol last night... oh, I had a glass of water around seven... this morning," he mumbled, trying to sit up slightly. "Otherwise, no..."

"Alright. Surgery will be prepped in about an hour. Do you know how an appendectomy works?"

"Mhmm... Antibiotics via IV before surgery to... kill any bacteria. Anaesthesia... The surgery itself is actually quite simple... They make the cuts and remove the appendix... Stitch the cuts back up and that's it, right?" Sherlock asked, leaning heavily back against his pillows.

"To put it simply, yes. You're going to have to stay in hospital, though we'll transfer you to the postanaesthesia care unit, and, eventually, to a private hospital room that Mycroft's set up." John paused. "I'm warning you, though, it can take four to six weeks for recovery, so you're not going to be working on cases."

"What?" Sherlock muttered, frowning. "Why not?"

"Sherlock, you're not just going to go into surgery and bound out into London to chase after criminals. You are going to need to recover."

Sighing, Sherlock rest his head back and closed his eyes.

"... Are you feeling any better?"

"As in, has the pain medication started working yet? Then, yes," Sherlock said. "It has... finally," he murmured, drawing his arm over his eyes.

"You know, I'm still kind of mad at you."

Sherlock peered at John over his arm. "Oh?"

"You could have told me that something was wrong," John said. "If you started feeling so bad last night, you could have told me."

"I thought it was just a stomach-ache," Sherlock replied.

"When do you ever get 'just' stomach-aches? You never get 'just' anything."

"Well, I didn't want appendicitis, if that's what you're trying to complain about."

"I'm not complaining, I'm just..." John sighed. "If your appendix had ruptured- if it had ruptured and stopped hurting- then what? I wouldn't have known anything was wrong and you would have assumed that it had been just a stomach-ache until it was too late. Sherlock, you _need_ to tell me things. I'm not asking for a manila folder of your life, just... I _am_ a doctor. I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you under my care."

Sherlock scowled. "Can you not be sentimental, please? I feel sick enough already."

"I'm serious."

Sherlock sighed, removing his arm from his eyes. "I'm fine, John. I will be, after surgery."

John didn't look happy. He looked pale and tired and worried.

"Sorry," Sherlock muttered. "I probably should have mentioned it. If it's any consolation, I was trying to figure out what was wrong with me after blood showed up in my urine, so I could broach the topic with you. Unfortunately, I never got quite that far before I started vomiting, and you found out that I was sick, anyway."

John looked at him in something that looked like surprise. Sherlock felt faintly abashed as he looked away again. He wasn't used to apologizing and John wasn't used to listening to him apologize. It was awkward. This was why he didn't apologize.

Besides, he hardly ever cared enough _to_ apologize.

John cleared his throat. "Uhm... Right." He stood. "What medication did they give you?" He walked to the IV, peering at the label.

Sherlock laughed softly, immediately regretting it. Pain swelled around the motion and, while it wasn't anywhere near the intensity that he had been experiencing, it hurt. He stopped laughing.

"Sherlock?" John was looking at him again.

"Just because I feel better, doesn't mean I'm not still in pain..." he murmured. "When did you say surgery would be ready?"

"About an hour. Do you need anything?"

Sherlock shook his head slightly. "Unless you're going to take my appendix out here and now, or give me a sedative, no."

"I can't do either of that, I'm afraid..."

"Then sit down and be quiet... 'm going to try to fall asleep again."

"Alright. Let me know if anything changes," John said, the nearby chair squeaking as he sank into it.

* * *

His doctor went over the procedure and the risks of the surgery, but Sherlock wasn't listening. The pain had returned- the medication must have run its course or else it was just intensifying for the moment- and he was desperately awaiting the moment where they would administer the anaesthesia and he could fall back asleep.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm fine. It's fine. Just get on with it!"

"We're going to administer the anaesthesia. You'll start feeling drowsy. Don't fight it."

"Right."

"Count down from one-hundred, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock closed his eyes, counting the numbers in his head.

"Out loud, Sherlock," John said.

Sherlock sighed. "Ninety-seven, ninety-six, ninety-five... John?"

"Hm?"

"You'll be there when I wake up, right?"

"Of course."

"Hm..." Sherlock smiled faintly. "Eighty-eight, eighty-seven, eighty-six..."

* * *

**This chapter is short and pretty much a filler chapter... and I'm struggling with post-op Sherlock, aka Chapter Five. But, hopefully the muse returns and figures out what the hell it's doing. -.-**

**Thank you for your support on this story, as always. You guys make my day.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_.**


	5. Reminiscing the Past

Sherlock awoke with a start.

"John- ow," he hissed, his hand clumsily moving to his stomach.

"Hey, take it easy. I'm right here."

Sherlock opened his eyes belatedly, looking towards his worried looking doctor. Well, one of his doctors. The only doctor he cared about.

"You're alright."

Sherlock mumbled that he was fine; or, at least, he tried to. His tongue felt like it was stuck to the roof of his mouth and his lips didn't want to move. His _I'm fine_ ended up being more of a mumble that sounded pitiful.

"Here. Water," John said. John set the bed up and helped Sherlock to take a drink. "Now, how are you feeling?"

"Fine..." he mumbled, trying to stretch. His entire body was sore. He knew, belatedly, that it was probably so painful from the appendicitis pain, the excessive vomiting, maybe the surgery and... just everything. "Did surgery go well...?" he murmured.

"It went fine. You were in the postaneasthesia care unit for awhile before you were moved to a private room... probably thanks to Mycroft that you weren't in the anaesthesia unit until you woke, but, anyway, you've been sleeping for awhile. Are you feeling any pain?"

"Aches and pains..." Sherlock mumbled, sitting up slightly. He was desperately terrified to move, even though his rational mind knew that the main source of the pain was already gone.

"Understandable. Do you need anything?"

Sherlock shook his head slightly. He still felt woozy from the anaesthesia.

"Okay. I'm going to talk to your doctor. Just relax."

Sherlock yawned and fell asleep again before anyone else could bother him.

* * *

"I really don't want to."

"Come on. You can get up, go to the toilet, wash your face. You'll feel better once you've freshened up a bit."

"I'll feel better when I'm sprawled out at home in bed..." Sherlock muttered.

"Moving is mandatory, Sherlock," John said. "Don't make this any more difficult than it has to be."

Sherlock sighed heavily, playing with his hair. He desperately wanted a shower, not that he thought he'd be able to have one. He definitely wasn't taking a shower here at hospital.

"Mycroft dropped by. He brought by some of your things. Like your toothbrush and toothpaste, if you felt like brushing your teeth."

Sherlock paused in twisting his hair around his finger, looking back at John. That wasn't fair. Sherlock really _did_ want to brush his teeth, but he couldn't very well do that while he was stuck in a hospital bed.

John must have noticed that he had caught Sherlock's interest.

"Come on. You can get the nasty taste of vomit out of your mouth. Cinnamon toothpaste tastes better, I'm sure."

"Oh, but John, I don't want to _move_," Sherlock groaned. "I'm still hurting from all the vomiting and the pain. _Moving_ is going to make it worse!"

John didn't respond, just bent down to rummage through a duffel bag that Sherlock hadn't noticed yet. His blogger stood up a moment later, holding up Sherlock's purple and white toothbrush and cinnamon toothpaste.

Sherlock sighed and struggled to sit up. "_Fine_! But _only_ because of the toothbrush. Not the 'moving is mandatory'-" fingers into quotation marks- "bit."

John smiled, moving to offer Sherlock a hand. Sherlock didn't take it at first, determined to walk on his own, but everything did hurt still. He was going to have to rest for a few days, he thought sourly, before he actually felt normal again. But, he did end up accepting John's help, unable to keep his balance until they had sorted out the IV pole.

When Sherlock had gotten the hang of walking with the IV pole, he managed to painfully stumble to the adjoining bathroom. John stayed outside the door while Sherlock used the toilet and clumsily brushed his teeth.

John was right: he did feel better after splashing water on his face and brushing his teeth. He felt a _lot_ better.

"John, when can I go home?" he asked, struggling with the bathroom door.

"Whenever the doctor sees fit," John said, holding the door open.

"Okay, when do you see fit?"

"Not _me_," John replied, a bit exasperatedly. "Your doctor."

"You are my doctor," Sherlock replied stubbornly, slowly shuffling back to bed.

"Yeah, your GP, maybe, but not your surgeon."

Sherlock sighed, sitting back on the edge of his bed. John automatically took the IV and hooked the drip bag back onto the bed, being careful not to tangle the line, as Sherlock laid back down.

He looked up at John critically, watching the doctor scribble a note on Sherlock's chart- most likely about Sherlock getting up to move around- before wheeling the IV pole back to its original place. It was only after he had hung up the clipboard back on the bed that John noticed Sherlock staring at him.

"... What?" John asked, placing the pencil behind his ear. "You know I hate it when you stare at me."

Sherlock shuffled a bit to get more comfortable, resting his head back against the pillow. "You really enjoy this."

"Enjoy what? Watching you suffer?" John muttered, flopping into his chair.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No. Being a doctor."

"Oh." John sounded surprised... and awkward. "Yeah..."

Sherlock looked at him. "Why are you embarrassed?"

"I'm not embarrassed," John replied immediately.

"No, but you're... hesitant. Awkward, even," Sherlock replied.

John sighed. "I just... I'm just not used to you seeing me in my element, is all. It's weird. It's like me staring over your shoulder at some experiment."

Sherlock felt his eyebrows knit together in a frown. "You wouldn't look over my shoulder. You never understand anything of what I experiment on."

"That's _not_ what I'm saying," John said, rubbing his eyes. "This just used to be my life. It's not what it is now. It's just different."

"You miss it," Sherlock said, closing his eyes. It wasn't a question.

"No-"

"You do."

Sherlock could practically _hear_ John squirming. He wasn't intentionally trying to make John uncomfortable, but he also didn't understand why his flatmate was being so embarrassed about the whole thing. John had been a part of the medical field for a few, long years. Now that Sherlock was bringing it up, John was feeling awkward about it. Sherlock didn't understand. John's idiosyncracies were one thing that Sherlock couldn't figure out.

"Yeah, okay, I sort of do, but if what happened in Afghanistan hadn't happened, I wouldn't be where I am now and I'm happy now."

"You were happy before," Sherlock replied without missing a beat.

It was starting to make a bit more sense. He and John's relationship was built on silence, so saying that he enjoyed the present now was just... really sentimental. And while John did sentiment, John didn't do sentiment with Sherlock. (Thankfully.)

"I'm happier now," John said.

The hospital room was bathed in silence- awkward silence. Sherlock wished that he could fall back asleep, but he just wasn't tired. He knew that John wouldn't be leaving and Sherlock wouldn't have asked him to, anyway.

"Oh!" John exclaimed. Sherlock opened his eyes, looking at John. "Mycroft brought over one of your pillows as well. He thought that you might be more comfortable with it than the hospital one."

Sherlock scowled, struggling to sit up. "Why didn't you say so earlier?"

"I forgot." John retrieved the pillow from wherever it had been hiding, swapping out the hospital one. Sherlock thumped back onto the pillow, sighing heavily. "Better?" John asked.

"You have no idea," Sherlock said, closing his eyes again. He really didn't. It was infinitely more comfortable. "Blanket?"

"No... Sorry."

Sherlock sighed through his nose, drawing his pillow closer. It smelled like his own shampoo and their laundry detergent. It smelled like home.

"Tell Mycroft to bring a blanket when he visits again," Sherlock said, without opening his eyes.

John sighed, although it sounded more amused than annoyed. "I'll see what I can do."

* * *

**I do believe that there's going to be one more chapter with this, because, now that the surgery's over, there's really not that much to say. _That_ being said, I have three other stories that I'm working on (two actually have multiple chapters, one's just building in my mind palace) that should be debuted soon. (And if you want to know: no, these new three ideas are _not_ sick!fics. One is psychological illness, in a sense, but the other two are not sick!fics at all.)**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


	6. Returning to Normality

"You're feeling better, then?"

Sherlock nodded, stretching. The motion brought a bit of pain- mostly from sore muscles, he was sure- but he didn't mind it now. He was pretty sure that his pain tolerance had kicked up a notch ever since he had started feeling the appendicitis pain. _Nothing_ could be worse than that...

Well, okay, probably some things _could_, but those were things that Sherlock never, _ever_, wanted to experience.

"Good. You should still be resting, though," John said.

"I've rested for the past few days in hospital," Sherlock muttered. "I don't want to continue resting. I want a case."

"Number one, you still have to go back to get the stitches out-"

"No, you can do that," Sherlock interrupted.

"I'm not doing that. They need to make sure you're healing nicely and that there's no sign of infection and I'm not letting you get by with just me supervising you."

Sherlock sighed, sinking onto the sofa. It was comfortable, it felt like home, and Sherlock was _so_ glad to be back at Baker Street.

"I don't want to go back to the stupid doctor, John. I was miserable enough that I had to go there in the first place, wasn't that enough?

"It will be as soon as your follow-up shows no sign of infection or anything else crippling," John replied, peering into the fridge. "Do you want to eat? You're on a normal diet now, so you can have pretty much anything."

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock replied carelessly.

"Yeah, you're clearly feeling better..." John muttered. "Tea and toast, at least."

"Fine."

He wasn't hungry, honestly, although he knew that John wouldn't accept that explanation. So, he'd stomach a piece or two of toast and he'd take the cuppa gratefully.

John delivered both to him, after smearing jam onto the toast and putting milk and sugar into the tea. Sherlock munched absently on one of the pieces of toast. It took him a minute to work up what he was about to say and he took a sip of his tea to wash the lingering taste of strawberry out of his mouth.

"Thank you."

John glanced up at him, looking away from a microwaveable dinner that he was holding. "What?"

Sherlock frowned and turned back to his toast. He took a calculated bite before speaking again. "While I don't condone visiting hospital unless absolutely necessary, you took it in stride to make sure that I received the care that you thought I needed. The gestures that you performed throughout the stay in the hospital were... appreciated," he finished stoically.

John looked surprised, although Sherlock was quick to catch the amusement that danced across John's tired face. "Really? Because I was under the impression that you hated to have me hovering."

"If I had to be in hospital, I would rather you be by my side," Sherlock said, taking a drink of his tea.

"Well." John paused, glancing back at the defrosting box in his hands. "You're... welcome."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Right."

Sherlock returned to his tea.

John turned back to his microwaveable dinner.

"Three minutes and thirty seconds," Sherlock intoned.

John looked up again. "What?"

"Your microwave salisbury steak. Three minutes and thirty seconds."

"Oh... Oh, okay, right." John opened the microwave door, peering into it. "Is this safe? Didn't explode any eyeballs in it?"

"I never explode anything." He paused. "Except that stomach once."

"Don't remind me," John muttered. "That was a mess."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed.

He smiled sardonically at the memory and, from the corner of his eye, noticed John smiling to himself, too.

* * *

**So, after not having access to Fanfiction for almost a whole week, here's the final (short) chapter of this story. Honestly, there isn't much to say _after_ the surgery. So, hopefully you all enjoyed this story. Thank you much for the reviews and the favourites and the follows. They are _so_ appreciated!**

**I do not own _Sherlock_.**

**Thank you!**


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